


Some Days it Just Does Not Pay to Get Out of Bed

by MisMiz (Jaaaaack51)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Bad Days, Gen, Humor, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:00:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaaaaack51/pseuds/MisMiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra wakes up. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days it Just Does Not Pay to Get Out of Bed

SOME DAYS IT JUST DOES NOT PAY TO GET OUT OF BED

BRRIINNNGGGG!!!! The shrill sound of his iPhone alarm rang through the head of one Ezra Standish, jolting him rudely awake and effectively ending the rather pleasant dream he’d been having. He was fairly certain he had been lounging by an Olympic sized swimming pool full of money while Maude, wearing French Maid attire, served him whiskey on a silver platter. And he was absolutely not going to psychoanalyze the implications of that dream. Not ever.

Emitting a groan, along with a fairly eloquent curse, he reached out a manicured hand intending to utilize the phone’s snooze feature like any civilized being. With his eyes still closed, he felt around on the small bedside table. Where the hell was his phone? He wiggled his hand around a bit more and felt it brush against something. He opened his eyes just in time to see the forgotten glass of burgundy colored wine from the previous night tip over and spill its contents all over his phone. Cursing with perhaps more force and less eloquence than before, he grabbed his phone and dropped it on the bed, dabbing at it with the comforter. The brand new, pure white, sinfully expensive, down comforter. Not perhaps the best course of action to have taken. Especially since his phone was now ominously dark and quiet. He sighed and poked at it for a few seconds before giving up. He would bring it to work with him and have JD take a look at it. The kid was a technological genius, even if he did have deplorable taste in music and couldn’t tell a joke to save his life.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in his head. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t finished that last glass of wine. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and stretched before rubbing a hand over jaw. A shave and shower were definitely in order. He turned to head towards the adjoining bathroom when pain suddenly shot through his foot as it hit the solid wrought iron bedframe. Oh God. What on earth had persuaded him to buy this antique monstrosity of a bed? Wrought iron and bare toes were not a combination he cared to try again in the near future. His head now throbbed in rhythm with his toes

Ezra sighed as he limped towards the bathroom, resolutely ignoring the mess behind him. The puddle of wine on the bedside table. The slow steady drip of that wine from the table onto the plush carpet below. The blank screen of his phone. The burgundy stain on his comforter. He paused to rub his foot and sighed again. Oh well. C’est la vie. That was the purpose of a cleaning service. He had other things to worry about. Such as getting to work so he could afford the aforementioned cleaning service.

He stepped into the bathroom. A hot shower would go a long way towards reviving him, physically and mentally. Eagerly anticipating the soothing, enveloping heat, he screeched like a banshee when he was met by a blast of icy water, instead. What the hell? He jumped backwards attempting to avoid the icy spray and his feet promptly slid out from under him. He landed on his posterior with a painful thud. Now head, foot, and rear all throbbed in some bizarre counterpoint fashion. 

He clambered awkwardly, and painfully, to his feet and hobbled indignantly towards the condo’s landline phone, still dripping wet. He thoroughly intended to give maintenance his opinion of their woefully inadequate performance. He had just picked up the phone when he vaguely recalled some sort of notice he’d received the previous week. Something about the hot water being off for a day while repairs were being made. Damn. As if his morning hadn’t been bad enough already. 

*******************************************************************************

Shivering slightly, after the quickest, and coldest, shower of his life, Ezra grabbed his favorite suit out of the closet. He found the luxurious feel of the fabric highly soothing and he felt that a little bit of comfort might not go amiss this morning. The image of his bloodshot eyes and pale face in the mirror had not made him feel like his usual dapper and well-groomed self.

He slid the pants gingerly up his legs and over his still aching posterior, frowning in confusion when he reached his waist. Something was not right. He hadn’t actually worn this suit in a while despite it being his favorite, but he didn’t recall it feeling quite like this. A sudden thought struck him. Good Lord, no. This wasn’t possible. It hadn’t been _that_ long since he’d worn the suit. He refused to believe what his brain was telling him. Rushing back into the bathroom, he stared in horror at the numbers on the bathroom scale. He’d gained ten pounds! 

Ezra fumed as he finished dressing, forced to leave the top button on his pants unfastened if he wished to breathe. This was all the fault of one Vin Tanner. Ezra would never have known of the existence of a certain puffy, sticky, deliciously sweet little cookie if Vin had not insisted he try one during a stakeout last month. The deceptively innocent appearing sharpshooter was a menace. And to add insult to injury, his fellow agent devoured the damned things by the boxful and never gained an ounce!

Ezra glanced at his watch. No time for breakfast. Which was just as well, considering those ten pounds. And he really didn’t feel all that well, anyway. The thought of food was making him feel vaguely nauseated. One of the joys of overindulgence in wine.

He grabbed his keys and raced out the door of the condo, wincing at the sharp surge of pain this produced in both head and foot. But he was determined to arrive on time today. Chris Larabee had called a meeting for this morning in order to discuss a new undercover operation. He’d have Ezra’s head on a platter if he was late for it. Although, with the way that portion of his anatomy was feeling, Ezra wasn’t certain that he wouldn’t welcome giving it away to someone else. 

*********************************************************************************

Ezra maneuvered the Jag expertly through the busy streets of downtown Denver. It seemed as if everyone and their brother had someplace they needed to be this morning. And they all drove as if they needed to be there five minutes ago. His hands clutched the steering wheel intently. This car was his pride and joy. It always made him slightly nervous when the other cars got a bit too close.

He could see ATF headquarters in the distance and he began to relax at the sight. He was still on schedule and, if he remembered correctly, there was an unopened bottle of aspirin in his desk drawer. Things were looking up.

The sickening sound of metal on metal was a worse pain to the southern agent than the jolt he received as his body snapped forward from the impact of the car behind him. A car with a driver who apparently was not a believer in keeping his distance. Ezra put his head down on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to see the damage that had been done to his car. His beautiful car. He wondered if a few tears would be remarked on. Were gentlemen allowed to cry over their cars?

With grim resolve Ezra got out of the car to survey the damage. It was even worse than he thought. And if a few tears trailed a path down his face while exchanging insurance information with the other driver, the man was wise enough not to comment on it.

*********************************************************************************

Ezra limped into the office just as his fellow agents were exiting the conference room. 

"Hey, Ez. You missed all the fun." Buck Wilmington called out. Entirely too cheerfully in the southerner’s opinion.

"What happened to you, Ezra? You look like you’ve been in a wreck." JD grinned at him as he passed by on the way to his desk.

"Buck. JD. Pray spare me any more of your observations. My morning has been quite bad enough, as it is." Ezra was in no mood.

"Brace yourself, Brother. I have a feeling your morning is about to get a whole lot worse." Josiah Sanchez patted him on the shoulder in commiseration as he exited the conference room, followed closely by Vin Tanner and Nathan Jackson.

"Ezra. Come in here. I want to talk to you." The voice of Chris Larabee did not sound nearly as irate as Ezra had expected. In fact, he sounded almost…amused. Somehow, Ezra found that far more frightening. He walked slowly towards the door of the conference room, feeling rather like he was walking that famous last mile.

"Walks awful graceful, don’t he?" He could hear the sharpshooter’s comment as he entered the conference room. Its meaning became all too apparent as he caught sight of their smirking leader, holding out an armful of purple taffeta. Who the hell wore purple taffeta nowadays? What kind of assignment was this? Undercover saloon girl?

Ezra walked back into the main office a few minutes later, holding an armful of women’s clothing and accessories. Most of it was purple. And there were feathers involved. Purple ones. 

"Gentlemen." He announced in resignation. "Some days it just does not pay to get out of bed."

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Mog's story "Then I'll Feel Better". 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Ezra's bad day more than he did. Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
